


Heaven, similar to: Hell

by m_madeleine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (with the blunt end don't worry), M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Penetration, Object Penetration, Public Humiliation, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:16:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: There's just one last obstacle before Aziraphale can return to Earth and find Crowley:Gabriel.





	Heaven, similar to: Hell

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the object penetration square of my Seasons of Kink bingo card. Thank you to drcalvin for spitballing and privatesnarker for beta and reassurance! 
> 
> Title is an inversion of a line from Christine Walde's (very Good Omens-y) poem _Heaven and Hell_.

Aziraphale can’t say he takes well to being called a “pathetic excuse for an angel.” He might be beginning to agree, although certainly not the way in which the quartermaster meant it. And such a horrid tone too! He has gotten quite tired of being treated this way, but before he gets the chance to even begin thinking of an appropriate response, a familiar voice interrupts the scene.

“Now there, no need to be so harsh to an esteemed colleague.”

The words may be velvet, but they still make Aziraphale flinch. Nothing Gabriel ever says, even the nicest things, isn't followed by a sharp bite of something unpleasant. And the fact that he likely knows all about him and Crowley is enough to make Aziraphale’s heart leap all the way to his throat.

Gabriel, however, just grins a wide grin.

“So nice to see you back with us, Aziraphale! All ready to fight, I see?”

Aziraphale eyes him cautiously.

“Yes, well—”

“Very good. But the gentleman over here does kind of have a point. What are the common soldiers going to think when they see the Angel of the Eastern Gate without his sword, huh?”

_Hopefully nothing,_ Aziraphale thinks, because he doesn’t exactly intend to still be here at that point. He sizes up the globe. It could work, if only Gabriel wasn’t right here…

The problem is not what Gabriel thinks anymore, no. Aziraphale really is beyond caring at this point. He’s simply scared Gabriel might be the one powerful enough to stop his tentatively planned escape.

“Bad example. Can’t have that,” Gabriel fills in for him cheerfully, meanwhile, and turns to the soldiers. “But that’s easily fixed, isn’t it? Gimme a sword. Any of yours.”

The quartermaster, albeit bewildered, hands over his own, and Gabriel takes it with a showy flourish.

“Ah, that’s something I haven’t done in a while. Rusty. Well then,” he addresses Aziraphale again. “Kneel.”

“Pardon-”

“Kneel,” Gabriel repeats, with a quick smile that reaches his eyes. It would be a major design flaw if it didn’t.

Aziraphale swallows and sinks down. He does know the archangel well enough not to expect getting executed then and there, he thinks. He hopes. Although lately he cannot say he has been sure of what he knows, in general.

Gabriel cocks his head, surveying him like an expensive work of art he's bought as office decoration and already decided is not to his liking after all.

“No, changed my mind. Stand up.”

Ah, there we go. Aziraphale barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Another one of Heaven’s silly rituals — and in the heat of the moment, it doesn’t occur to Aziraphale that it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to think of them as such. He complies. Gabriel steps closer.

“Go on, open up.”

Aziraphale shoots him a questioning look.

Gabriel’s answering stare skilfully mocks his confusion.

“Your mouth?”

Bewildered, Aziraphale complies. Just a couple of minutes of this frankly ridiculous display and he can get out of here and find Crowley. Just a bit—

He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it coming, but all of a sudden, Gabriel takes a hard grip on his jaw and forces the hilt of the sword into his mouth.

Aziraphale splutters, flails back on instinct; in vain, as Gabriel’s fingers come up to clasp the back of his neck, freezing Aziraphale’s entire non-corporeal shape on the spot.

On earth, Aziraphale would indeed be insubstantial right now. But he’s in heaven and the sword is of heavenly make, as is he, and so the cool metal presses harshly against his throat. In perhaps the worst way possible, Aziraphale discovers that his angelic form has a gag reflex. He chokes several times, in fact, trying to fight the intrusion, only succeeding in producing an exceeding amount of spit.

The archangel is relentless and Aziraphale struggles to remember to breathe through his nose as the hilt moves the back and forth in his mouth, bumping against his throat. He has to wrap his lips around it to keep the metal from scraping against his teeth painfully; the physical discomfort morphs into burning-hot humiliation when he realizes exactly what act this resembles.

“So,” Gabriel begins conversationally, as if not in the middle of using a sword handle to fuck Aziraphale’s mouth, “what lesson are we taking from this?”

Everything in Aziraphale protests against it, being treated in this horrid way that doesn’t seem quite real. Despite his attempts to avoid eye contact, lilac irises continue to bore into his. He struggles to move away again; hopelessly caught in Gabriel’s grip, he makes a helpless sound, more saliva running down his chin.

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch it, I’m afraid. Well, let me remind you,” Gabriel continues and suddenly his voice is made of steel, reverberating, punctuating, no, _puncturing_ every word—

_“You respect the sword.”_

Aziraphale jerks away from the booming voice, eyes screwed shut, but he’s still trapped, nowhere to go — and just as quickly as it had hardened, Gabriel’s tone mellows.

“I’d ask you to repeat, but I don’t think you can, huh.”

Aziraphale is truly starting to panic. It might seem ridiculous, he doesn’t even have a body, but he still feels like he’s suffocating, and then Gabriel pushes the hilt even further down his throat and the resulting dry-heaving steals the last of his breath—

Finally, Gabriel lets up. Aziraphale barely keeps his knees from buckling as the vice-like hand disappears from his neck. He still can barely breathe and yet, he feels like screaming. Surely it would bring some kind of relief for the horrible panic clumped up in his chest... and only give Gabriel more satisfaction. His abused throat would likely not let him, anyway.

Gabriel hands the sword back to the quartermaster, who is left in confusion as to how to hold the ruined thing. When he turns back, he’s all smiles again.

“No hard feelings, pal. Just a bit of friendly discipline between colleagues.” Gabriel bends down a little to clasp Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Now that we got that bit out of the way — make us proud out there.” He says the last words emphatically, as he says everything. The clicking sound of his bespoke shoes on Heaven’s immaculate floor is reminiscent of bells ringing on a cold winter morning, amid deadly frost.

Aziraphale finally catches his breath. The ringing in his ears is fading away slowly. His jaw continues to ache, because healing won’t take on his immaterial shape, and, despite himself, he can’t stop shivering. At least, he thinks, wiping his face in disgust, this hasn’t ruined his actual clothes.

The quartermaster is clearly trying to look anywhere but at Aziraphale, and the soldiers behind him are squirming as well. Suddenly, Aziraphale realizes that this might have gone a little far even by heaven’s standards.

Oh well. His gain. Using the moment of distraction, he makes his way over to the globe and launches himself into a state so incorporeal the pain surely has to vanish, at least for a moment.

No one tries to stop him.


End file.
